The carriage was waiting, and in a few minutes she was seated beside him, and they were making their way eastwards through the sunset streets.
'Dear ?' he said, with timid interrogation, laying his hand momentarily on hers.
Eugenie was looking out of window with her face turned away.
'He was very--kind,' she said, rather deliberately.

'Don't let us talk about it, papa--but wait--and see!' Lord Findon understood that she referred to Elsie Bligh--that she had sown her seed, and must now let it germinate.
But herself--what had it cost her?
And he knew well that he should never ask the question; and that, if he did, she would never answer it.
By the time they were threading the slums of Seven Dials, she was talking rather fast and flowingly of Fenwick.
'You have brought the cheque, papa ?' 'I have my cheque-book.' 'And you are quite certain about the pictures ?' 'Quite.' 'It will be nice to make him happy,' she said, softly.

'His letters have been pretty doleful.' 'What has he found to write about ?' exclaimed Lord Findon, wondering.
'Himself, mostly!' she laughed.

'He likes rhetoric--and he seems to have found out that I do too.

As I told you, he began with an apology--and since then he writes about books and art--and--and the evils of aristocracy.' 'Bless my soul, what the deuce does he know about it! And you answer him ?' 'Yes.